The Ghosts of Hampton Court
by Paper Ballerina
Summary: The ghosts of those Henry VIII wronged haunt the grounds of Hampton Court Palace. They attempt to make peace with the past, lay old rivalries to rest and wait for the chance to confront the aging king for his tyranny and cruelty. From old friends and advisers to his queens and courtiers, there are many unhappy souls trapped at court.
1. 1530: The Upstart

**_"The Upstart "_**

_November 1530_

Wolsey found himself walking aimlessly amongst the hedge rows of his privy garden at Hampton. His calloused waxen hands were outstretched and brushing against the tips of the hedges and yet he couldn't feel the cool edges of the leaves nor the cold bite of the winter air. A flurry of snowflakes slowly descended, landing upon his upturned face yet yielded no cold to burn his wrinkled brow.

The world had not changed yet Thomas Wolsey knew that, in some fundamental way, he had. He placed the tip of his fingers to where the snowflakes had landed and did not feel them melt at his touch. His expression was one of utter bemusement at finding his established reality so altered. He had no sensation at all. He swiped his rough hand quickly over his forehead to ensure that he was not mistake and once again his hand was dry. _Inexplicable thought_ Wolsey as he inspected his hand. As he looked over his knotted hand, a memory stirred. Wolsey remembered wiping his sweating brow as he coughed up foul tasting bile as he wrote to the king for mercy. He remembered clutching the writing desk as his body shook from spasms and he wheezed for air. He remembered being carried into bed by his jailers when he could no longer stand. Wolsey remembered dying in that cramped little bed in Leicester, His life oozing out of him like pus from plague boil. His hands dropped to his side and he collapsed to his knees. He felt crushed by the realisation that he was a dead man.

For a moment, he stayed knelling in the frost covered lawn as the snow settled around him. He had died without wealth or even a loved one to watch over his body. His body, Where was it? Had it been treated with respect or like that of a traitor? Was he buried in his black sarcophagus in Windsor? Oh god, Wolsey could have wept for himself. He had risen so high and was brought so low. But then a more troubling thought struck him that shook his very soul. If he was dead, why was he at Hampton and not with God Almighty in paradise? Wolsey let out an anguished yelp, certain that he was in Purgatory.

He knew the doctrine well enough to know that most mortals would be bound to Purgatory for a time for multiple sins. They would be tormented and punished and only through the prayers of those living or facing such tribulations would the soul be purified and taken back to the Lord. Wolsey had, of course, known the touch of a woman and had lived in sin. But surely that was not enough to warrant a servant of God, such as himself, to be abandoned between worlds? He cradled his head in his hands and wept bitterly. Had he not served god and the king well? Had he not been a loyal and most diligent servant? Yet despite this he was lost in Purgatory and knew that not a living soul would pray the "upstart Butcher's Boy". How long would he stay in this limbo? Hadn't his last few weeks of life facing the King's displeasure been punishment enough for any sin he committed? The questions rolled into his head as plentifully as the tears rolled down his plump cheeks. Yet there was no answer just the sound of the river lapping against the barges and the fleeting song of a blackbird.

Wolsey's sobs stopped abruptly as he heard a hearty roar of laughter. The sound was sudden and ugly compared to the near silence that had cloaked him moments before. He gazed up at the upper floor windows of his grand home and caught sight of movement and bejewelled clothing. A striking broad figure led a procession of gaudily dressed men and women along the corridor. The man had hair of bronze underneath a jaunty feathered cap and was dramatically telling a tale with wide hand movements and wild expressions. Despite his apparent vigour for the story he was telling, the man never took his eyes of the slender woman at his side. The dark haired woman in turn didn't take her eyes off him and protectively intertwined her arm with his.

'Henry! My god, Henry!' Wolsey stumbled to his feet and cried before he realised what he was doing. He took two steps forward before he fell back to his knees, his hands reaching upwards imploringly as he watched the procession pass between window panes. He knew they could not see him and part of him was thankful for that small mercy. He would hate to be loathed for his begging by Henry and he would hate to see that Boleyn girl look over him in triumph. He watched the last of the couriers go by without even a glance thrown in his direction. In the past, all of them would have sought his favour and now he was completely forgotten. No one seemed to mourn for Wolsey.


	2. 1536: A Queen and a Martyr

Catherine's eyes fluttered open as the bright winter sun flooded into the room. She sat on a window seat, head tilted and resting on a bejewelled hand as her elbow pressed against the lead window pane. Dreamily, she turned her head to look out at the gardens bellow. Still dazed, her brow furrowed slightly as her eyes searched over the landscape. The gardens were maintained and perfectly planned out unlike the rustic wasteland that surrounded her at Kimbolton . But this was not Kimbolton Castle nor was she in her room! With the realisation Catherine leapt up as though she had been struck. What had Henry done to her this time? Had he moved her again despite her being confined to her sick bed? Catherine had been wracked with such pain that she was feverish and could barely stay awake. Had he moved her when she was too weak to open her eyes? Had they carried her in a litter across the country despite her whimpers? Catherine flushed with indignation at being treated so disrespectfully. She was Queen of England! How dare they ignore her wishes for the common decency to rest after all the humiliations heaped upon her. After all, she had been unceremoniously banished to wildernesses of England, Moved from one crumbling castle to another whenever it pleased Henry, Her titles and worldly goods taken from her and every humble request she had made was denied. She cursed herself for a fool; she should have expected such cruel treatment from a Tudor. Had Henry's father not treated her so when Arthur died and she was no longer needed? For seven long years she struggled in abject poverty in a strange land without a friend or ally. Her dresses had worn through and her debts mounted until she despaired for her future. Yet she had endured that dreadful time with courage and optimism and had triumphed in the end. She sighed; she was not so sure she had the courage or the strength to endure such tribulations again. She felt weak and could hardly summon any strength, yet she determinedly kept going for her daughter. She had to keep going for Mary.

With a sense of purpose, Catherine gathered her skirts and headed towards the door when two garish ladies in French fashions bustled into the room. Catherine held her head high and looked at them expectantly but was insolently ignored. Met with such disrespectful treatment by two chitterling girls, Catherine raised her eyebrows but contained her temper. She could hardly be surprised that these two women had such poor manners when they had the _Great Concubine _as an example. She instead waited for them to rectify their behaviour and conduct themselves as ladies not fishwives.

_'…Have you seen the Queen today? Dressed in all in yellow, so she is. Looks like a bloody daffodil if you ask me…'_

_'…Mark Smeaton said it had to do with being Spanish. A mark of respect to wear yellow or something like that…'_

_'…And how would Smeaton know? He's just a poor musician. He'd say anything to make the Queen sound respectful and decent because he's madly in love with her. Everyone knows. He says she's wearing yellow out of respect, I say she's wearing it so she looks good while she dances on that poor woman's grave…' _

Catherine stood dumbfounded by their candid talk. It was as though she wasn't there or that she wasn't considered regal enough to be given her due respect. Did no one believe that she was the rightful queen now that the Bullen woman was sharing her husband's bed? Her anger and wounded pride ebbed away and instead a heavy sadness settled over her. How could she, who had been a good queen to England, be so disregarded that two silly girls could ignore her for idle gossip? Collecting her thoughts, she approached the girls.

'Excuse me, is this how you dare treat your rightful queen? Are you listening to me?' Catherine said tartly as she held herself to her full height. Standing with her back straight and head held high, she was the very image of a proud and handsome queen who demanded loyalty and respect. But the girls didn't even finch at her words or take any note of her presence as they sat on the bed chattering like the monkeys courtiers kept as pets in Spain. Catherine was incredulously with rage, never in all her life had two dullards been so disrespectful. She was about to launch into a sharp reprimand when a dark figure appeared in the doorway. Catherine turned to direct her anger at the bystander but uttered a gasp and stepped backwards towards the sunlit window for support. _It cannot be! _Catherine cried out in her mind as stumbled backwards, her back pressed against the window panes.

* * *

The figure was dressed in his characteristic black; his skin was chalk in comparison. His velvet black cap was a little askew and his mousey brown hair was dishevelled and unkempt looking. But most notably there was a line of blood around his neck as though his neck was a piece of parchment and someone had drawn a line across it in crimson ink. Despite his ghastly appearance, he looked towards Catherine with warmth and a kindly smile.

'You have been much distressed, your grace.' He said at last, not daring to step closer to her. Catherine looked at the girls and noted that they could not see the dead man. Had she gone mad and now was receiving visions of martyrs? Had her fever caused such deliriums that she imaged herself in a comfortable palace with old friends? Was she dreaming just waiting to wake? Catherine composed herself, although her hands still trembled, deciding that she would not be frightened of shadows of dead men.

'I prayed for your soul and shed many tears when you departed this earth, Thomas More.' Catherine said solemnly, recalling her sadness when the news reached her. Poor Thomas, he died because he could not in good conscience tolerate Henry's folly and heresy. He died trying to save Henry from hellfire. Thomas More smiled and touched the line across his throat tenderly as he stepped onto the threshold.

'And I prayed for you when you passed on too, your Grace.' He said reluctantly as though not wishing to cause this gracious lady any more suffering.

Catherine simply stared at him in disbelieve, hardly entertaining such an outrageous thought. But was it such an outrageous thought? She could not remember falling asleep or waking up nor could she recall travelling to wherever she was now. She felt none of the gut wrenching pains that had plagued her for months and was dressed in rich garments as though she was still queen. Henry certainly wouldn't permit her to be dressed so garishly now she was disregarded. Catherine knew that she would not be ignored so brazenly by two girls or be conversing with a dead man if what he said wasn't true. Her quick wit and level head had to agree with what he said. Dully and without emotion, Catherine found herself moving away from the light and towards More.

'How did I….?' She asked uncertainly. More felt a surge of affection and pity towards this woman who had suffered so much. And yet despite all she had suffered, she admirably held her composure and dignity while he, like the angel of death, brought her news of her demise. _By god, what a woman you are_ More thought with stirring pride.

'You died peacefully in your sleep. ' More said gently, saying no more so that the thought could sink in. Catherine turned from him and looked out towards the parkland. This was all so sudden and so much to understand. She turned back to face him.

'Is this purgatory?' She asked with a termer, fearful of the response. More stepped forwards wanting to comfort her, but even in death she was still a queen and such an action would be most inappropriate. So he stood with his hands firmly clasped before him and cringed as he saw the distress in her eyes.

'This is not purgatory as scripture states. There are no punishments or judgements or demons to torment us. Wolsey and I have a theory-'

'Wolsey? Thomas Wolsey is _here_?' Catherine hissed recoiling in revulsion.

More checked himself. He should have expected that Catherine may still hold some resentment towards the cardinal. Reconciliation would be essential to their continued existence and More knew that regardless of how long it took he would have to coerce peace between the two. So he continued.

'Yes. As I was saying, Wolsey and I have a theory that the natural order has been disturbed. The King has desecrated the church and has made England an ungodly place. Without the proper church there can be no heaven or hell or purgatory. We are trapped between worlds where god cannot reach us. Without true faith we cannot ascend.' More said with great sadness. He knew that it could not just be their souls that were left to roam the earth but also those of good Catholics everywhere. Good god fearing people would suffer while heretics like Mistress Boleyn were dancing merry jigs.

Catherine gasped, placing a hand to her chest. _Henry, oh Henry what have you done?_ Catherine thought as tears filled her eyes. But as the tears blurred her vision, she realised that this was all her fault. If only she had given him a healthy robust son then he would not have replaced her and in doing so removed the true religion. Because of her inability to perform her wifely duty her subjects would linger between life and death. If only her boys had lived. But one of her children had lived.

'Where is Mary? Where is my child?' Catherine asked urgently, the need to see her child consumed her.

'She is banished from court at Hudson. She begged relentlessly to see you during your illness but she was forbidden by Henry. The king has been mightily displeased with Princess Mary since she rejected Mistress Boleyn's claim to be queen. From what I have seen here at court, ambassador Chapuys has been championing Mary.'

Catherine sighed with relief that someone was there to protect her child when she could not. Tears continued to roll down her face unchecked as she smiled, blessing Eustace Chapuys for his devotion and kindness. More felt anguished to see Catherine cry. He could never have imagined such a proud woman shedding tears. He cleared his throat.

'Your majesty, there are other's waiting for you.' He said softly.

* * *

Catherine followed More through the hallways and quickly recognised it as Hampton Court. They brushed passed the courtiers and those seeking an audience with the king making those they touched shiver in their wake. _How odd it was to not be the centre of everyone's attention_ thought Catherine, who for the first time in her life was completely anonymous. More lead her down the hallways until they reached the queen's audience chamber. Catherine looked at More with a look of hurt suspicion. Why would he bring her here? To see that whore sitting on her throne and gloating at her death? More in reply simple smiled and gestured for her to enter. Catherine readied herself to face the whore and pushed the door open.

Anne Boleyn wasn't in the room nor was any for her ladies or servants. Instead there were four auburn haired people, who Catherine didn't recognise, sitting idle on the silk floor cushions. As she walked into the room, they got to their feet and approached her. Three tall handsome men and one pretty lady dressed impeccably stopped before her and dipped into bows. They seemed so familiar and yet she had never laid eyes on them before. The first of the men spoke;

'I should introduce myself. I am Hal, Duke of Cornwall, this is Harry of Cornwall and this is Henry of Cornwall. We are your sons. This is your daughter'

Catherine was flabbergasted and yet knew in her heart that they were her children. They were perfect mixtures of Henry and herself with bright auburn hair. The tiny infants that had lived so briefly were now adults grown and they were glorious. Catherine wrapped her arms her long lost children and wept as she showered them with small kisses. More watched the touching scene from the hallway before closing the door and turning away.

* * *

_**AN: Are you liking it so far? is there anyone in particular you are looking forward to see? Also this is based on the historical figures rather than the show in case there is any confusion. **_


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